Promises Poem by James Papastamos

A knife without a handle to
comfort, to convenience, a weary hand; the
Scent of love in the morning air
a rose garden mid desert sand

A lawn, freshly cut, its friendly blades
fading, somehow degrading, for want of rain; how absurd
Yellow with envy, yelling in anger
as nature had not kept its final word

A train that stops for no one
on tracks that trace our every step;
Poets, our tears to ink what mortal pen
doth beg for mercy, and cry for help